Chapter 20 Port of Bayonne, Gascony, May 1370 #3
Jeanette frowned. ‘From what I saw of Mistress Swynford, she is as unlike Mistress Perrers as dross is to gold. I would not have thought her the kind to engage in an affair, and I know she dearly loved Duchess Blanche. People will see what they want to see – especially through closed doors.’ She gave him a severe look.
Johan reddened. ‘You would have to see it to know,’ he said. ‘I am just saying you should be aware of the matter if he does marry Lady Constanza, because he has an eye to Lady Swynford too.’
Thomas folded his arms. ‘If the Duke fixes his attention on her, it might cause friction in a new marriage unless they are discreet.’
‘That is what I was trying to say,’ Johan said.
‘It is not something to deal with now,’ Jeanette told them, ‘but I shall bear it in mind should it become any of our business – and you were right to tell me, Johan.’
As they went down to the great hall, Jeanette pondered whether to broach the matter to Edward, who might already know, but she decided to keep the information to herself for now.
Arriving in the hall, all such deliberation was banished from her mind, for the place was in uproar.
A messenger had arrived with news that the city of Limoges had fallen to Jean, Duc de Berri, brother of the French king.
Some of the townspeople had locked themselves in the citadel and refused to surrender, but others, encouraged by their bishop, had opened the gates to de Berri, who had announced in ringing tones to the citizens that Edward was dead, and they should surrender now.
Edward was raging, wild-eyed, with hectic flags of colour in his cheeks.
‘I will show him what death looks like!’ he said hoarsely, fighting for breath.
‘I will bring it to him personally with fire and sword and send him and his stained honour into the fires of hell! I swear this on my soul. The Duc de Berri will rue the day he ever rode into Limoges, as will the Bishop.’ His voice curdled on the final words, for the Bishop of Limoges was his eldest son’s godfather, and his yielding was an utter betrayal.
John of Lancaster gripped Edward’s arm. ‘Calm yourself, brother. We have the soldiers. It will not take us long to assemble and ride to relieve Limoges. Not every citizen has sworn for the French, and many have done so only because they have been duped into believing you are dead. Send letters now, and I shall go and deal with the matter.’
Edward angrily shook him off. ‘I shall go to Limoges myself. You as well, my brother, but everyone shall know I remain alive, and ready to punish all who doubt it. Give the orders. Prepare to march!’
John eyed him as if about to argue about the wisdom of Edward going anywhere but then nodded brusquely. ‘As you wish. The sooner we leave, the sooner we can be there.’
Jeanette sat on the edge of Edward’s bed. Following his outburst, he had held himself together for several more hours, but finally had yielded to exhaustion and been forced to lie down. His face was waxen, and Master Hermon had given him a stronger than usual dose of tincture.
‘You should not go,’ Jeanette said. ‘Let John do what must be done.’
Edward made the effort to raise himself up on his elbow. ‘I am strong enough for this – whatever it takes, I shall do it. I may be sick, but I am not dead, and while I live, the Duc de Berri shall not have the better of me.’
Jeanette looked at his wasted frame and the dark shadows beneath his eyes caused by the riptides of shock and emotion on hearing the news, and by the effort of sustaining himself. His stamina was all but gone.
‘I asked you not to go to Castile, and you went,’ she said. ‘I am asking you not to go to Limoges, but you will not heed me.’
‘I shall go to Limoges, even if I have to be carried in a litter every mile of the way!’ he snapped, his eyes glittering. ‘I swear to stand before those walls and watch as they fall.’
Jeanette rose abruptly and walked to the window, pressing down the urge to scream.
Long ago she had married Thomas Holland and become a soldier’s wife with all the bitter-sweetness it entailed.
The pain of the parting, the joy of the reunion, and sometimes life under canvas if she took the campaign road with him.
Until one day he left her and had not returned.
And now Edward. Had he not gone to Castile he might still be whole.
Yet, it was the nature of the man she had married, and she had known from the beginning he would not change.
Whatever she said, no matter how much she railed and wept, he would still leave her to go to war.
‘And what then, when you have retaken Limoges as you hope?’ She faced him. ‘John tells me you have asked him to stay and rule Aquitaine while we return to England. You have decided then?’
‘I was going to speak of it to you at the appropriate moment, but then this news arrived.’
‘I shall be glad to leave,’ she said. ‘It is time our eldest son met his grandsire and the country he shall one day rule. You need to rest and grow stronger without having these constant pressures put upon you. I know you feel you must go to Limoges, but I fear the cost to us all.’
He palmed his face. ‘It is not a feeling, it is a necessity. When we have set matters to rights, and by the grace of God I return to Angoulême, then we shall work upon returning to England – perhaps after the Christmas feast . . .’
From the stubborn set of his jaw, she knew further argument was pointless.
‘It might be the last chance I have,’ he said quietly.
‘Do not say that!’
‘But it is—’
‘I do not care how true it is, do not say it!’ she cried.
‘Do not bring it out of your mind and add the burden to mine!’ Furious tears prickled her eyes.
‘Go and do what you must at Limoges. I shall not weep to see you leave, I shall stand proudly with our children and bid you farewell, but know this: it will be a bitter day for my heart even while I smile in public.’
He beckoned her to join him on the bed. ‘You are the perfect wife,’ he said. ‘You are my shield and my joy, and I undertake none of this lightly.’
She lay against him, her hand on his lean ribcage. ‘And you are my heart and my home,’ she replied. ‘Never take that lightly either.’
A week later Edward departed at the head of an army to relieve Limoges.
Their spies had reported that the Duc de Berri had fled on learning that the Prince was coming for him.
Pleas for de Berri to stay and meet the English in battle had merely encouraged him to a speedier retreat, disguised as fetching aid.
Unable to sit a horse, Edward was borne on a litter, but it was gilded and decorated with banners and shields.
Edward jestingly referred to it as his ‘war chariot’ and identified it as a rallying point for his men.
Sitting within it on the day of departure, he wore his new armour, gleaming like silvered jet, topped by his scarlet, blue and gold jupon, stitched with leopards and lilies, a jewelled belt hugging his hips.
The banners rippled in the breeze and the knights, shining in their best parade armour, were like a gathering of paladins from an Arthurian tale.
Little Edward and his infant brother were allowed to ride in their father’s litter for a short distance before being lifted down and returned to the women by a couple of squires.
Jeanette watched the men ride away and bit her lip, wondering if she would ever see them again and what their condition would be when they returned.
‘Papa’s a great warrior.’ Little Edward gave a skip and a jump. ‘I want to be like him.’
Jeanette swallowed. ‘You shall indeed be a fine man, my love.’
‘Me too!’ Richard shouted, not to be outdone. ‘And I shall have a big crown.’ He showed exactly how big by raising his hands in the air. ‘Big, big, big! I’m going to be a king!’
Jeanette was amused at his precociousness, and a little concerned.
‘No,’ his brother said, ‘I shall be king because I am older than you are, and you will have to help me – like Uncle John helps our father.’
Richard pouted. ‘I’m still going to have the biggest crown, with lots and lots of jewels.’
‘It is not about the jewels,’ Jeanette reproved gently. ‘They only stand for all that a king, and indeed a prince, must be. He might be recognised by his fine clothes, but he will be cursed if he does not feed his people.’
Richard frowned, and for once stayed still to consider what she had said, his blue eyes thoughtful. ‘Is Papa cursed?’
Jeanette recognised the trap yawning under her feet. ‘No, of course not – he is just not well at the moment.’
‘When will he be better?’ Edward wanted to know.
‘That is in God’s hands and God’s will – I do not have an answer for that.’
Her sons were sharp, and she could not protect them from everything that was happening; even when confined to the nursery they still heard things, and she was sad.
Little Edward had spent his first years with his father being whole and well, but Richard would never have a memory of being tossed in the air by strong arms, of being caught and squealing with joy.
‘Come,’ she said. ‘Let us open the sweetmeat box and I will read you a story.’